“Next day after to-morrow, it will be fifty years since I was married to thy dear mother.  How fresh many of the scenes of that day are brought before me!  It almost seems as if they transpired yesterday.  These reminiscences afford me a melancholy pleasure, and I love to indulge in them.  No man has experienced more exquisite pleasure, or deeper sorrows than I have.”

Perhaps the reader will say that I have spoken little of his sorrows; and it is true.  But who does not know that all the sternest conflicts of life can never be recorded!  Every human soul must walk alone through the darkest and most dangerous paths of its spiritual pilgrimage; absolutely alone with God!  Much, from which we suffer most acutely, could never be revealed to others; still more could never be understood, if it were revealed; and still more ought never to be repeated, if it could be understood.  Therefore, the frankest and fullest biography must necessarily be superficial.

The old gentleman was not prone to talk of his troubles.  They never made him irritable, but rather increased his tenderness and thoughtfulness toward others.  His naturally violent temper was brought under almost complete subjection.  During the nine years that I lived with him, I never saw him lose his balance but twice; and then it was only for a moment, and under very provoking circumstances.

The much-quoted line, “None knew him but to love him, none named him but to praise,” was probably never true of any man; certainly not of any one with a strong character.  Many were hostile to Friend Hopper, and some were bitter in their enmity.  Of course, it could not be otherwise with a man who battled with oppression, selfishness, and bigotry, wherever he encountered them, and whose rebukes were too direct and explicit to be evaded.  Moreover, no person in this world is allowed to be peculiar and independent with impunity.  There are always men who wish to compel such characters to submit, by the pressure of circumstances.  This kind of spiritual thumb-screw was often, and in various ways, tried upon Friend Hopper; but though it sometimes occasioned temporary inconvenience, it never induced him to change his course.

Though few old men enjoyed life so much as he did, he always thought and spoke of death with cheerful serenity.  On the third of December, 1851, he wrote thus to his youngest daughter, Mary:  “This day completes my eightieth year.  ‘My eye is not dim, nor my natural force abated.’  My head is well covered with hair, which still retains its usual glossy dark color, with but few gray hairs sprinkled about, hardly noticed by a casual observer.  My life has been prolonged beyond most, and has been truly ‘a chequered scene.’  I often take a retrospect of it, and it fills me with awe.  It is marvellous how many dangers and hair-breadth escapes I have experienced.  If I may say it without presumption, I desire not to live until I am unable to take care of myself, and become a burden to those about me.  If I had my life to live over again, the experience I have had might caution me to avoid many mistakes, and perhaps I might make a more useful citizen; but I don’t know that I should greatly improve it.  Mercy and kindness have followed me thus far, and I have faith that they will continue with me to the end.”